


The Mystery Avian

by WitchFlame (RachelMcN)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Animal Doctors, Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Fluff, Gen, POV Outsider, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), The Wings of Demons Are Often Better Groomed, Veterinary Clinic, Vets, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24456535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachelMcN/pseuds/WitchFlame
Summary: The veterinary clinic is used to treating animals they can see. Lucy would really like to be able to examine her current patient.Unfortunately, Mr Fell does not seem to be in the mood to reveal his mystery pet, if indeed he brought one at all.And then he comes back buried under the coils of a snake.
Comments: 30
Kudos: 275





	The Mystery Avian

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Song](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Song/gifts).



> Gifted to Song, the enabler.
> 
> I am so sorry to any veterinarians for any gross inaccuracies I have no doubt included. I tried to research and while I went down some wonderful rabbit holes I'm sure I got something (or many things) very wrong. Do not assume my research was correct, please always consult an actual vet with avian or reptilian concerns.
> 
> You are all awesome people and we need to treat our vets with so much respect because dear heavens do you deserve it.

Flopsy did not trust her. The scepticism of the lop-eared rascal was evident as she hopped quickly across the examination table and reared up onto her hind legs. Her doting owner scooped her obediently up, forepaws clawing at her chest as the young girl cooed over her poor dear, the cheeky bunny playing cute so long as she was kept away from the scary vet and her pointy needles.

“Vaccinations all up to date, nothing to worry about, she’s fit as a fiddle,” Lucy reassures, internally cringing at the idiom tripping off her tongue. Was that too colloquial, is that a phrase they use out here? Professional dammit, focus.

The child’s father ruffles Flopsy between the ears as she ushers them out, thanking her as she confirms the little monster may feel drowsy for the next few hours but that is nothing to worry about, she’ll return to her destructive tendencies soon enough. As they veer towards the receptionist’s desk, Lucy despairing at their lack of a small animal carrier because _they’re parked just outside_ , she consults her next appointment.

“Aziraphale!” Lucy calls into the waiting area, an elderly gentleman perking up at the sound. She beckons him over welcomingly. “Hi, I’m Lucy, nice to meet you. My consulting room is right through here.” Slightly concerned when he doesn’t collect the nearby pet-carrier mewling pitifully or the leash of the labrador by his feet which is revealed to be held by the teenager sat next to him, she slyly re-reads her hastily scribbled note as she guides him in.

Unspecified Avian.

Alright then.

Luke is normally more definitive than that but he had seemed particularly harried earlier with all the mid-morning late booking calls and it wasn’t too terrible an oversight. So she was working with a bird and presumably one small enough to fit under the guys coat. While it wouldn’t be the first time she’d had someone bring in a chick presumed misplaced from their nest she really wished people would stop doing that; they raised seasonal awareness for a reason. Then again perhaps he’d found a stunned sparrow after an incident with a window or he did actually own a pet bird that he chose to transport in the folds of his coat instead of a cage for whatever reason. People were strange like that, after all.

The man steps inside and waits placidly as she ushers him in and closes the door behind them for privacy, smiling at her as she turns around. He does not produce the bird. “How can I help today, Mr Fell?” she prompts, returning his friendly gesture as she rounds the examination table in anticipation of her patient.

“Ah,” the gentleman lights up, bouncing softly as he realises the consultation has begun, “I understand you’re something of an animal expert.”

“Well, I’ll certainly try my best,” she acknowledges, shutting down that expectation straight away. Manage expectations, _always_ manage expectations or you end up with an exotic enthusiast convinced you know everything there ever was to know about his private menagerie of lizards. “Aziraphale, is it?”

“Oh, yes,” he agrees blindingly, while continuing to hide the little blighter, “You see, it’s…well, I was hoping I could ask you for some advice.”

“I’m here to help,” she encourages, continuing to hope Mr Fell will present the hidden animal, “What concerns are we having?”

This was usually the part where the doting owner would show her the matted fur and scabs upon their beloved scrapper of a cat, or the worried do-gooder would unveil the hibernating hedgehog they’d found amidst the prepared bonfire. Mr Fell neither reveals Aziraphale nor encourages her to study the mystery avian’s potential ailments.

“The matter is a little embarrassing,” her clients owner concedes, shifting uncomfortably, “Concerning the care of feathers; more specifically preening and well, the ability to do so by one’s…lonesome, as it were?”

She hastily switches mental tracks from thoughts of club-footed pigeons and overgrown budgie beaks. “Preening,” she repeats thoughtfully to give herself time, “An important mark of mental health. Have you noticed any loss of appetite?”

“I don’t,” Mr Fell frowns thoughtfully, “believe so, no. Would that be important?”

“It’s worth keeping an eye on,” she informs, regaining her flow now she has a targeted direction to consult upon even if she is still lacking a visible patient, “A lack of appetite can be a sign of depression, which could impact the ability to preen oneself effectively. I do apologise if this sounds insensitive, but am I correct in believing from your statement that Aziraphale recently lost a companion?”

Mr Fell’s expression grows pained, his gaze shying from her own. “It was a bit more serious than that. There was a...family disagreement.”

Oh, good lord. No, nope, she’d never taken to the psychology classes. Unfortunately, the owners were technically her clients as well and often the hardest part of the job was trying to impart good habits for the sake of the animals. On the other hand, Mr Fell appears to mainly be seeking reassurance and without being able to handle Aziraphale directly, she can only go by what his owner has told her. Which currently, seems to be leaning towards good sense and simple uninformed worry, thankfully.

“If this happened...recently, then the first thing I’d recommend is allowing time to adjust to the new situation. While allopreening is a sweet social interaction, I’d place a fair bet that Aziraphale is more than capable of taking charge of his own preening, if given the chance.” Mr Fell flushes at that, fingers twining as he fidgets. “However, there are ways to make the process easier, if need be. A gentle spritz of water can help trigger the preening instinct and it can help soften up old quills, all you need is a spray bottle. There are some bird-specific bath sprays that could help keep the feathers in healthy condition as well, but please do be careful; no generic shampoo, or the like.”

She trawls her memories as Mr Fell appears to relax with her words, running her tongue along the back of her teeth as she seeks any further information she can give this caring gentleman. “Any discolouration that begins affecting the feathers could be a sign of stress, so do let us know if you begin to find any dark stress lines,” she advises, “They’re not necessarily anything to worry about, but we’re here if you need us. The black bars aren’t permanent through a moult, simply a sign that we need to reconsider Aziraphale’s environment and they might just be a sign of poor diet; occasionally we get a bird that’s been overly handled and the discolouration is from oils and lotions passed from the skin of the owner. You can handle the feathers as long as you know what you’re doing and certainly don’t try to remove any blood feathers, but I would definitely recommend proper education before you consider it.”

Mr Fell breathes heavily. “Truly? Oh, that is good to know. I must admit, I feared I was committing some unspoken breach of etiquette.”

She softens, seeing Mr Fell’s genuine worry for his pet. “Shall we take a look?” she offers gently.

Mr Fell startles, glancing around the room. “Oh. Ah, it’s...a little small, isn’t it? Not now, perhaps.”

If the bird is small enough to fit under his coat then it’s small enough to find her consultation room positively spacious but perhaps she’s misjudged. Aziraphale could be shy, or his owner desperately overprotective as does appear to be the case, poor soul. Then again, if Mr Fell only came intending to gather information and advice then it’s quite possible Aziraphale isn’t even in the room and is safely back home. It would explain why she hasn’t heard a peep the entire time they’ve been talking.

“Next time then,” she soothes, “Take some time and if you feel there’s any problems then feel free to come back anytime and I’ll take a look. And if you decide that a new friend could help, then that’s always an option as well.”

“Oh, Heavens no, I couldn’t ask Crowley to – that is to say, I – well, I’ll just...” A flustered Mr Fell hastily bids her farewell and departs and she rubs at her eyes with the heels of her hands. An entire consultation with no pet. Well, she’s had worse, although the paper trail she has to record for this one will be interesting. Alright, who does she have next?

The labrador is adorable and the hamster that follows, while it nips her, isn’t all that troublesome. She confronts Luke as the waiting room’s last occupant leaves satisfied through their door and finds he only partially recalls the pet-less visitor. “Wasn’t he the one with the ostrich?” he tries, expression tight as he tries to remember, “Or an emu? It was something with bloody large feathers anyway, the way he was talking.”

“I thought Aziraphale might be a budgie,” she admits, “that he had the little guy in his pocket or something. Don’t we need to know for our records? What did you even put in the booking field anyway?”

“Avian,” Luke shrugged, “Wasn’t wrong, was I?”

She had conceded the point at the time, but now, several months later she’s beginning to think she should have pushed a little further. Maybe contacted Mr Fell herself, for clarity’s sake. If indeed he had even left a contact number.

“Luke,” she hisses, refusing to turn around and confront the waiting room and its occupants, “I thought he had a bird.”

“He did,” Luke agrees, eyebrows raised, as he surreptitiously glances past her shoulder, “I hope he still does.”

“Not funny,” she whispers harshly, “When I moved here, I told you about the lizards as a _joke_ , not an _instruction."_

A smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth and she growls. “Sorry Lucy, only one vet here has experience with exotic animals listed on their CV. Seems like a you problem. Besides, he asked specially for you, you must have made an impression last time.”

“Ugh, I should not have padded my resume with the blasted lizards,” she moans, “I am so not getting you anything next time I make a bakery run.” She shifts several pieces of paper needlessly to excuse her presence at the reception desk to any watching visitors.

“Crowley,” she calls cheerily, internally cringing as she turns around to spy the ridiculously hefty snake pooling around the frail gentleman. Reptiles, the bane of her veterinary career. Why couldn’t he have brought in Aziraphale again? If indeed the bird had even been present on his previous visit. She wasn’t an expert on birds but she would prefer them to the current scaled monstrosity he was currently hefting into his arms as though it weighed nothing more than a puppy.

“Oh, I think that’s us, dear,” Mr Fell enthuses, somehow managing to stand under the endless coils, “So nice to see you again, Dr Lucy.”

“That’s not,” she starts, “Lucy is fine, Mr Fell. I’ll take you in here.”

Once more, once within the consultation room, Mr Fell makes no move to present his potentially ailing pet upon the examination table. She can’t say she is too concerned about it, this time round.

“How common is it to assist with a moult?” Mr Fell asks as soon as she’s rounded the table, clearly far more opinionated with his fresh line of enquiry than the hesitant, uncertain gentleman she remembers.

“For a shedding snake?” she clarifies, because if Mr Fell has come asking advice for Aziraphale again while bringing a reptile in the mystery birds place, she’s liable to kick him out, “That really depends on the situation.”

The snake loops around their owner’s chest, tongue flicking under Mr Fell’s chin with a low hiss. She would like to assume he wouldn’t have brought a venomous creature into her place of work without some measure of control but she does not recognise this species in the least. Mr Fell appears slightly irritated at his errant pet.

“More often than not, the animal doesn’t require any assistance,” she assures, “and it’s important not to force a shed, as trying to remove the old skin before the snake is ready can be painful for them.” As her visitor's face begins to fall, the snakes head twists towards her, stiffening into an attack posture. She sways back a step, attempting to look thoughtful. She’s pretty sure her head could fit between its jaws if it wanted to make a go of it. “However,” she recalls, “as a snake sheds all at once unlike a lizard, there’s no harm in assisting once the process has begun so long as you’re careful. Lightly keeping hold of the shedding skin as the snake slips free is perfectly acceptable and can keep the shed from splitting if you’re bothered about keeping it intact. There’s no reason not to help once the process has begun, by holding it in place or helping gently peel it off. And if any shed gets stuck then a warm shallow bath for ten to fifteen minutes at 26 - 29 degrees Celsius can soften up the shed enough for a damp cloth to gently clear any remnants, though such a situation is probably an indication of an issue with the environment.”

The snake’s jaw drops open and she watches as Mr Fell swells with vindication. “You see, Crowley,” he grins, petting the coils swamping him, “Nothing to be ashamed about, it’s perfectly acceptable. I told you the humans would agree.”

He winds the snake further around himself, recovering the coils which have slipped towards the ground in a feat of strength that should not be possible. Lucy is just relieved that his question of the day revolves around a topic she’s competent enough to answer after all that last-minute research on various lizards. She’d ask whether she could check the animal over but, in all honesty, from what she can see of Crowley he looks as healthy as she would be able to determine from a thorough yet uninformed examination. She can’t see any indication of scale rot and he’s giving no sign of discomfort. Not to mention, needlessly studying the length of him without any suggestion of ill health from his owner would take time she cannot spare with her schedule for the day as full as it currently is.

She can’t help asking after Aziraphale though, before she lets him go.

“Happy to help. I hope there hasn’t been any issues with the preening query you came in with before?”

Mr Fell blushes bright red as the snake’s tongue suddenly flicks rapidly, his attention caught by his owner. “Er, no no, absolutely tickety-boo! You’ve been very useful, excellent advice, I do believe it’s time we let you be getting on.”

He’s through her door and leaving before she can stop him. There’s no actual proof that he _had_ a bird, seeing as she never saw Aziraphale in person and she’s not sure how somebody would go about proving whether he had fed a live pet to his snake. Bloody hell, she might need to call the RSPCA. She should at least advise him that live feeding can be dangerous to the snake.

Unfortunately, when she finally finds a free second, it turns out she can do neither because Luke _took no details._

“I did,” Luke protests when confronted, “I know I did, the guy gave the address of a place of business, which was weird. It was a... library or a bookshop or an antique store or something. Do you think he lets his animals roam the shop? That can’t be safe, can it?”

“You don’t even have a phone number listed,” Lucy complains, “It appears on the screen itself, how could you have missed that?”

“Unlisted?” Luke guesses, “I don’t know what to tell you, I swear I took a note during the call.”

With no number to contact and no address to pass on, Lucy is forced to surrender for the time being. She keeps an eye out for Mr Fell but the next time he graces her clinic he’s accompanying somebody else and his name isn’t even listed on her appointments.

“ _Luke!”_

“Goddammit, _what?”_ her colleague growls, “We’re busy – Pria's busy, George is busy, I’m busy, _you should be busy_.”

“I am busy,” she snarls, “I’m swamped and I want to help every animal that passes through those doors but I am not an aquatic veterinarian and I don’t know how to help a _fish.”_

Luke frowns at her and brings up her next appointment. “Oh,” he agrees, “Did I write that?”

“ _Luke."_

“No wait, I do remember this,” Luke claims, “made perfect sense at the time. Mr Anthony asked for you, I think.”

“Why am I treating a tropical fish with next to no experience with fish or crustaceans, freshwater or otherwise?!”

“Okay well, if it helps,” Luke tries even though she’s already sure of her answer, “it may not actually be a fish.”

She hides her face in her palms and takes a deep breath.

“I heard ‘angel’ and then there was some issue with the line cos all that followed was some weird hissing noise and I didn’t even think to question it until he’d hung up,” Luke admitted sheepishly, “And after all the emergency drop-offs it was way too late to reasonably call back and an angelfish was the only animal I could think off. It sounded right what with the hissing on the line. Angel hssss, that has to be angel _fish,_ right?”

“I’m going to kill you,” she hisses back, loudly turning and calling on her client over the cacophony before she can change her mind. “Ezra!”

She really should not be surprised that Mr Fell’s companion is the man who stands, hauling the reptile-lover up after him by the gentleman’s elbow. This client is quickly becoming more of a nuisance than the lizard visits. Why did she move here again?

“Hi, I’m Lucy,” she greets with a rictus grin, “Right through here, please.”

“So,” Mr Anthony drawls as she closes the door behind them, “On the subject of preening.”

It has been a very long day and she is not equipped for this.

“As an educated animal doctor of such standing, I presume you’d be able to tell if somebody had been achieving a piss-poor level of personal grooming? And would thus advocate for assisted – is there a word for one feathered being helping another with their wing care?”

Mr Fell is rigid, eyes stone. “Allopreening,” she provides tiredly, wondering at his unusually tense stance, hands clasped white before him.

“Allopreening!” Mr Anthony crows gleefully, “What a wonderful word; isn’t it nice angel, that it happens so often the humans went and gave the activity its own word?” She’s given up guessing where they’ve hidden the fish; if they bring out a damp dove she’s going to scream.

“It would help if I could see the issue,” she determines. She’s swept off her feet enough today, she does not need to waste her time moderating an issue between two antagonistic friends that may not have even brought in an animal.

“Oh, of course,” Mr Anthony concedes eagerly, leaning over to his companion, “One moment.”

Mr Fell squawks as the other man snaps a hand up against his back and then Lucy has to take a moment as she’s slapped by something large and heavy that smells strongly of faux coconut. She spits out the fluff that’s somehow gotten caught in her mouth before she can remember she’s in a professional environment, squinting her eyes open.

Her examination table has been upended and Mr Fell has gone bright red, glaring at his companion who is smirking back, at complete ease under a blanket of pale white feathers. She has obviously been working too hard.

“What do you think, doc?” Mr Anthony prods, running his hand through the large mass as several over-sized feathers flutter free, “They’re in a poor state, right?”

“I’ve been trying my best,” Mr Fell protests, the impossible wings attempting to pull back in the suddenly cramped space, “It’s a work in progress. Practice makes perfect and all that.”

“Yeah, sure,” the maniac that incites spontaneous wing growth brushes off, “Outside opinion. If somebody can push their way into helping with a regular shed that said serpent has been handling alone for _longer than written language existed_ then do they really have a leg to stand on when it comes to feather maintenance that they are clearly ill-prepared to attempt solo?”

Lucy balances her hand against the wall and tries to think past the sharp scent of false sugar. “What have you been _doing_ to them?” she asks affronted, “If you’d brought in a parrot with wings in that state, I’d be heavily advising you to improve whatever poor conditions you were keeping it in.”

“He’s been spraying them with perfume,” the newest insanity in her life proclaims enthusiastically, “I caught him trying to use a river like a birdbath.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose, thinks through the current logic hazing the room and realises something. “You,” she declares, pointing at Mr Anthony, “Show them.”

“If you insist,” her current headache cackles, turning his back to her. Two midnight-blue wings stretch against the walls of her consulting room as if they always existed. She manipulates the closest wing, studying the neat span of well-groomed feather layers. Tilts it aside as she brushes a few feathers of the lighter wing through her fingers. They feel oily, dusty, both at once. It’s disconcerting and most certainly unhealthy.

“Alright,” she proclaims, attempting to step back and realising there really is very little room left to move within, “I’m prescribing allopreening. The two of you, figure it out.” The feathers fold away and she’s very doubtful they were ever there in the first place. Something makes her step forward and poke Mr Anthony in the chest as he turns around nevertheless. “You, for Christ’s sake start teaching him whatever you’re doing and stop bringing me non-existent fish.” She turns to Mr Fell and pokes him in the sternum as well. “And you, start accepting help and don’t let Crowley eat anymore birds. Now both of you get out so I can get on with my job.”

The faint haze clouding her mind lasts throughout the rest of the day, several of her patients miraculously recovering before she can even prescribe a medical solution. Luke catches her on his way out the door, as she’s tending to Mrs Nelson’s kitten, left overnight in the care of the practice.

“So how’d it go with the angelfish?” he asks curiously, half-hiding behind the doorframe.

“Oh, it wasn’t an angelfish,” she corrects, settling the kitten back into his temporary cage, “it was an angel.”

“Right.”

Her mind catches up with her words and she stares into the middle distance for a moment. Luke clears his throat.

_“See,”_ he demands, “I told you it makes sense at the time.”

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone interested in snake body language or snakes in general: [Snake Discovery YouTube Video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KNKgK9L_CP8):  
> P.S. I feel so horribly guilty at the adorableness of Hognose snakes (7:47 - 12:32 in the video), they're Crowley levels of harmless and dramatic
> 
> [The Daily Life of a Vet in TEDx Talk format](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=objP3E625Xo), we should show these amazing people our respect:


End file.
